


Come a Long Way (From Where We Began)

by iam93percentstardust



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Immortality, M/M, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death, implied soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iam93percentstardust/pseuds/iam93percentstardust
Summary: The story begins withonce upon a time.But there’s more than justonce upon a time.Perhaps it’sonce upon a time, there was a princess.Or maybe there was a sorceress. Or a Witcher.But in this story, it’sonce upon a time, there was a bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 178





	Come a Long Way (From Where We Began)

The story begins with _once upon a time_.

But there’s more than just _once upon a time_.

Perhaps it’s _once upon a time, there was a princess_.

Or maybe there was a sorceress.

Or a Witcher.

But in this story, it’s _once upon a time, there was a bard_.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a bard.

There was a bard and he was loud and musical and argumentative, everything that you would want from a good bard—and nothing from a good lordling, which this bard was. But that was okay because _this_ bard, one Jaskier by name, wanted nothing to do with being a good lordling. He wanted adventure and freedom and to taste the open air on his tongue. Royalty and all its trappings held no appeal for him.

The stories say that Jaskier ran—from his life, from his family, to freedom. Some of them say he walked. Or perhaps he rode. Whatever it might have been, he left: for Oxenfurt, for Rinde, for Posada—and it’s there, in Posada, that he meets _him_.

Him being, of course, the other half of the story, the Witcher, the one they call the Butcher but calls himself Geralt.

There are many stories about Geralt, stories about a princess—or two—or a beautiful sorceress or a terrifying monster but mostly, they’re about the Witcher and his bard. And why should they not be? For twenty years, it is the bard who is a constant companion, a true friend and sometimes, the stories hint, something more. As for Jaskier, nearly all the stories are about the bard and his Witcher. Human lives are so short, there’s room for only so many stories and Jaskier has dedicated all of his to Geralt.

He spins tales about Geralt, about his heroism, his courage, his goodness. But here’s what the stories don’t say: they don’t say anything about that first disastrous meeting, they say nothing of Geralt’s often harsh words, and as for the dragon hunt, Jaskier keeps that to himself.

He’s asked once by the young princess why he never talks about the bad. Jaskier just laughs and says, “What bad?”

And it’s true. When he thinks about the long years he spent with Geralt, he doesn’t remember the harsh words, the petty insults, the cruel way he would sometimes get left behind. He remembers the dragon hunt because it had been the first time he had truly separated from the Witcher—and eventually, the first time he ever received an apology from him. But when he thinks about Geralt, he thinks about Geralt pausing by the side of the road to give him time to pick flowers, about his smile when Jaskier held entire conversations with Roach, about the careful way he held him during their one and only night together after Pavetta’s betrothal. Jaskier had never been held like that before, like he was fragile, like he was something to be treasured. He’s never been held like that since.

He can’t begrudge Yennefer for holding onto Geralt for so long if he had treated her with even half the care he’d treated Jaskier with. If he’d had even half a chance, if Geralt had given him even a hint that he wanted something beyond a single night, Jaskier would have grabbed on with both hands and not let go for anything. But he hadn’t and Jaskier finds that he must content himself with what Geralt _is_ willing to offer him: friendship, companionship, despite the words on the mountain.

He spends his later years first in Kaer Morhen, helping train Ciri, and then, after she’s taken back the Continent, after she’s crowned queen, after Jaskier wakes to realize his hair is going grey and his knees ache in the morning, he retires to the coast like he’s wanted to since he was a boy at Oxenfurt.

There, he settles in a small cottage with a guest room for his friends: Triss, who his neighbors adore; Ciri, who awes everyone who meets her; even Yennefer, when she’s seeking someone to bicker with.

And then there’s Geralt.

Geralt, who arrives nearly a year after Jaskier first moved in and then never leaves. Geralt, who builds himself an additional room to the cottage so that the guest room isn’t permanently taken. Geralt, who makes space for himself in Jaskier’s cottage and life and heart. Jaskier had thought he knew what love is before this but he’s coming to see now that he had no idea.

Love is Geralt waking up before dawn every morning and building a fire so that Jaskier doesn’t wake up with achy knees. Love is presents of honeycakes on his birthday no matter how often Geralt claims they’re bad for him. Love is Geralt leaving to take on a contract but always, _always,_ coming back to him—and it hurts sometimes that Jaskier must love silently but this is what Geralt is offering him and so this is what he will take. This is enough.

Until it isn’t.

The stories talk about the bard and his Witcher, the Witcher and his bard, but they never mention the quiet evening and two men, both white-haired though only one looks his age, sitting together on a porch, watching the tide roll in. They never mention the bard leaning his head against the Witcher’s shoulder and asking if the Witcher had any regrets in his long life.

“Some,” the Witcher says, verbose as ever. “Renfri. Yennefer. You.”

“Me?” the bard laughs.

“For waiting so long to figure out what I wanted.”

The stories talk about the bard and his Witcher, the Witcher and his bard, but they say nothing of the kiss on that quiet evening.

Jaskier spends the last years of his life at the coast, in a small cottage by the sea, surrounded by his friends and his love. The extra room now sits empty; Geralt now sleeps beside the bard. His last years are happy ones—he meets Ciri’s daughters, all godmothered by Yennefer, who has in particular taken the youngest one—destined to be a powerful sorceress—under her wing. He sees Ciri herself becoming a great queen, greater than her grandmother ever was. He sees the slow return of the elves to the Continent. And he sees Geralt, day and night and every moment in between.

Jaskier spends the last years of his life happy.

The stories talk about the bard and his Witcher, the Witcher and his bard, and so many of them end in the bard’s death but all of them end with the bard dying in the arms of his Witcher and just this once, as it is in the stories, so it is in life.

Once upon a time, there was a bard who lived and loved and died.

But that is not where the story ends.

* * *

Geralt once told Jaskier that Witchers die when they slow but what happens when they never slow?

He considers it once, some months after Jaskier passes, if he were to just…move too slow the next time he faced a kikimora. But he throws that idea out as soon as it comes to him. Jaskier wouldn’t have wanted him to die just so he can see him a little sooner. And he _will_ see him again. Whether he eventually ages and slows too much or the cycle of the years passes, he will one day see Jaskier again.

And when he does, this time he won’t wait so long.

Geralt never slows. He doesn’t know if it’s the training or the extra mutagens or something else entirely but he never slows and so he lives long enough to see first Vesemir and then Eskel and Lambert leave him alone in the world, the last Witcher. He lives long enough to see Ciri grow old and die and then he lives long enough to see Yennefer finally expend too much power and extinguish her flame.

He lives long enough to see them come back to him again.

He lives long enough to see the monsters driven to extinction, to see the Witchers become obsolete, to see himself become the last one standing.

He lives long enough to see all that happen.

The first time he meets a young mage with dark hair and violet eyes—called just Yenn in this life and nothing more—he starts searching for Jaskier. He has no idea how long it’s been since Jaskier’s passing but he’s certain that, by now, his bard has come back. He searches and sometimes he hears songs that he thinks must belong to his Jaskier, but he never finds.

Geralt lives.

He lives to hear the stories of the Witcher and his bard turn into myth first and then to legend. He lives to see the world become mechanically-minded. He sees empires rise and fall and he never truly spends those years alone, whether it’s Yennefer or Ciri or any of the other Witchers who join him, but he is the only one who lives all these long years.

Sometimes, he finds that the passage of time, the changing of the world, is too much and he retires to the coast for some time, to a small cottage where he once lived with his bard. There, he waits, for Jaskier maybe, for the passage of time to make sense again, for someone to come and find him and take him by the hand and lead him out into the world again.

A century is a long time for anyone to live and Geralt has lived many.

He forgets things sometimes, gets events mixed up—was Ciri called Cee two hundred years ago or five?—but he never forgets that he’s looking for Jaskier. He gets close sometimes—he hears names: Dandelion, Julian, Buttercup, sometimes even Jask. He hears his songs because who else could they belong to but Jaskier? But he never finds him.

He has faith though. Faith that he will find Jaskier again, that Jaskier will find him, that they will find each other. Jaskier is his and he is Jaskier’s. They belong to each other and for that, they can never be truly parted.

The world moves on.

Ciri is Ciri again for the fifteenth time. Eskel is on his twenty-first lifetime. Geralt has walked the Continent for untold centuries and he has just found Yennefer again. The world has changed since the first time they met, even since the _last_ time they met. The story of the Witcher and his bard are mere whispers now, not even a legend. Cities are going up, up, up. There are cars now, a concept that has now existed long enough that there are old cars. Geralt has one, an old brown clunker that he fondly calls Roach. No one has ever accused him of being sentimental but he thinks that he might be growing so in his old age.

“I think I’ve found him this time,” Yennefer says the second time they meet in this life. She’s said this before but it’s always turned out to be false. He appreciates her trying though even if, after all these years, he still struggles to find the words to thank her.

“Is that where you’re taking me?” he asks instead.

She smiles enigmatically and stops in front of a green door. It’s a café, one of those ones that Geralt doesn’t understand despite all his long years—the ones that claim it only uses local coffee beans even though he can taste the difference and knows perfectly well that they came from the big grocery store two miles down the road or play the quiet music with the guitars. He likes that kind of music but he’s never understood why these sorts of cafes only play that. It’s the kind of place that Geralt would never step foot inside of—and it’s exactly the kind of place that Jaskier would love. He wonders how he never thought of it before.

Yennefer opens the door, letting him step inside first, and there he is, sitting on the counter and playing the guitar in a faded apron. This time, _this time_ , it’s Jaskier, looking as young and beautiful as he had the day Geralt first met him so many centuries ago.

“Jask,” he chokes out, low enough that Jaskier can’t possibly hear him but he does.

 _He does_.

He looks up and he catches sight of Geralt and he smiles that smile that could rival all the suns in the universe for their brightness.

“Hello, Geralt.”

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a bard.


End file.
